


Welcome Home

by Make_It_Worse



Series: Brat Tamer [6]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Apologies, Bottom Connor, Break Up, Breaking Up & Making Up, Connor standing up for himself, Dom Hank Anderson, Dom/sub, Feelings admissions, Hank Anderson is Bad at Feelings, M/M, Top Hank Anderson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 08:08:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20467787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: This is part of a D/s series. Heed the tags.Part 6.





	Welcome Home

Neither of them had really talked about what would happen after graduation. Their primary concern had always been not getting caught. Now, standing in his tiny apartment and holding an advanced degree, Connor wasn’t sure where they went from here.

He’d had a few half-formed daydreams about striding into Anderson’s office, kissing him with the door flung wide. He’d thought about simply calling him “Hank” to see if he could get a reaction out of him. Facing the reality, he suddenly felt cold with dread.

Things had been going well. Almost too well. Their communication was on point and the sex was unbelievable, but something always seemed to be skulking in his peripheral.

In the end, it’s a job offer that proves to be their undoing.

With shaking hands, Connor clenches a letter from a prestigious company in the industry—Cyberlife—and they wanted _him_. It was an offer most people didn’t even bother to hope for. His elation soon gave way to something painful and difficult to think too hard about.

Standing outside his prof—no, his _peer’s_ door—he isn’t sure what to expect. Anderson opens it and lets him in, raising an eyebrow at the envelope. He’s silent through Connor’s explanation.

Connor stares hard, waiting for any emotion to show on Anderson’s face. It never comes.

“So,” Connor gestures at the letter still in his lover’s hands, “What do you think?”

Anderson’s answer is immediate, “You should go. It’s an incredible opportunity.”

And that had been that. He’d risen from his couch, poured them both a finger of whiskey, and toasted Connor and his bright future. Connor didn’t even feel the burn as the alcohol slid down his throat. His world had gone numb. He didn’t know what he’d wanted when he’d arrived unannounced on Anderson’s doorstep, but he knew it wasn’t this.

He left after the drink, leaving his hopes behind him on the couch.

Anderson’s head fell to his hands when Connor shut the door without so much as a goodbye. It was as clean of a break as he could have managed. Connor deserved the opportunity, but something else lurked in the house with Anderson in the weeks to come.

It took him nearly a month to realize he missed the brat. He wanted to talk to him, to touch him. It was terrifying. He googles him a few times over the passing months to keep up with his career. From the sounds of it, he’s a rising star.

Nearly a year to the day of Connor’s departure, Jeffrey arrives unannounced. Hank greets him mildly, wondering what the dean could want now that the semester is over.

“I thought you should know,” he begins ominously enough to keep Anderson’s interest piqued. “The department is taking on a joint project—some big advancement for medicine in the tech sector, you know the usual drill. It’s too big for the students to handle on their own.”

Anderson can already tell where Jeff is going with the conversation, “You want me to supervise a bunch of super nerds while they use our research facilities.”

Jeffrey scowls at him, “As I recall, you are one of those super nerds, too, Hank.” Anderson waves a hand at him dismissively and Jeffrey sighs, “Yes and no. We need you there to supervise the partnering team. I don’t want to grant unfettered access without someone I trust watching.”

“Jesus, Jeff,” Jeffrey wasn’t the paranoid type and it struck Anderson as strange for him to be worried, “Who’s the partner?”

“Cyberlife,” Jeffrey watches Anderson, waiting for a reaction. The third syllable isn’t out of his mouth before Anderson’s on his feet.

“What the f—,” he cuts himself off, realizing too late that Jeffrey knows nothing about Connor, his job at Cyberlife, or why this news is disturbing to him.

Or, maybe, he knows a lot more than Anderson bargained for, “They’re sending the Stern kid. This is his alma mater, after all.” When Anderson continues to do little more than stare, Jeffrey sighs, “You don’t need to say anything. It was a guess. Anyone who looked at him could tell he was carrying a torch for you a mile high.”

“So why say anything now?” The words come out as a croak and Anderson clears his throat.

Jeffrey shrugs, “We’re friends, Hank. I didn’t want you to walk in on Monday and see him without any warning. You’ve been a foul bastard this last year. I know it didn’t end well.”

“It never does with me,” Anderson agrees.

Despite his shock, Anderson can’t help but feel a tendril of something warm blossom in his chest. He wondered how Connor would react, if Connor was hoping to surprise him…if Connor was still angry.

He knows Connor was angry. He’d received more than one drunk voicemail from Connor screaming incoherent words. It was always followed with a sterile apology text the next day devoid of emotion, making it clear Anderson shouldn’t reach out. He wouldn’t know what to say even if he’d been so inclined.

Connor doesn’t greet him when he walks into the lab the next day. He tells him to suit up and get to work helping the group furthest across the room from him before turning his attention back to the task at hand.

It’s cold and brutal; Anderson wonders if this is how he made his partners feel when he’d end relationships with detached efficiency.

It’s finicky work and normally Anderson would hate it. Watching Connor run a room full of burgeoning engineers and scientists, however, is strangely attractive. It suits him, Anderson decides, even if Connor is largely ignoring him in the process.

The first time Connor calls him “Hank” from across the room, his voice heavy with impatience, he has to resist the urge to haul him into his office and bend him over his desk. He wants to remind Connor where he belongs and what happens when he uses _that_ tone with him.

He’s taken two rapid steps in Connor’s direction when he remembers that Connor isn’t _his_ anymore. He’d been brutal in their parting; what else did he expect? Connor wasn’t a student anymore. He didn’t have to call him sir or even professor.

Anderson doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like that he has feelings on the matter at all. He shouldn’t. He has no right.

Connor’s mouth is set in an irritated line as he waits for his one-time-lover to approach, “I need you to take over from here. This stage requires more experienced hands. We can’t afford any setbacks.”

Anderson doesn’t even have time to enjoy the compliment before Connor’s moving onto a different set of panicky students worrying over their much smaller parts of the project.

By the end of the day, Anderson and Connor are the last two still in the lab. Connor exhales tangible frustration every few minutes, clearly pushed beyond his limits.

Rising, Anderson rests his hand between Connor’s shoulder blades, “I think it’s time you went hom—”

Connor rockets out of his chair, eyes narrowed, “I’ll go home when the job is done. I don’t leave things unfinished.”

Anderson’s eyebrows raise in mild surprise at the amount of rage Connor summoned in the span of blinking. Evidently, some wounds are still gaping.

Anderson lets the issue rest; Connor will only dig in his heels more if Anderson pushes him on the issue. He’s surprised to find it’s dark outside when he leaves Connor hunched over a mess of wires. Still, it’s too soon to go to bed and his brain is restless.

He finds his most tedious robotics magazine and sets off to bore himself to sleep on his couch. His own name on the page catches his eye.

“Who would you say was the greatest influence on the direction you’re taking?”

“That would probably be Hank Anderson. He was the professor in charge of—well, everything robotics actually. I wouldn’t have the drive I have today without him.” Anderson tries to absorb the rest of the article, but his brain won’t let go of those three sentences.

They’re not even particularly telling sentences. They’re fairly bland and give him nothing to work with, but the fact that Connor had mentioned him at all sets his brain on fire. He stares at the words on the page for several minutes, only looking away when someone starts banging on his front door as if they mean to beat it down. He already knows who’s on the other side.

Connor strides into the living room exuding palpable waves of rage, not waiting for Anderson to grant him access. Agony mars his otherwise beautiful face as he reaches into a cabinet by memory, pulling out two tumblers and whiskey.

He pours himself a shot, leaving Anderson’s empty.

“To my future,” Connor spits out, vicious and raw, as he pours himself another.

Anderson eyes him warily. He knows Connor is prone to theatrics, but this is different. He has to tread carefully to keep this night from imploding. Assuming he hasn’t irrevocably broken whatever was between them already.

He pours himself a drink while Connor sips his second. Raising it in Connor’s direction, he murmurs, “Welcome home.”

“That’s it?” Connor asks, voice flat and unimpressed. “That’s all I get?”

“I don’t know what you expected, coming here unannounced. It’s been a long time, Conn—”

“Bullshit,” Connor’s voice slashes through the air between them and Anderson narrows his eyes.

Jilted lover or not, no one speaks to him like that in his own house, “Watch your tone, boy.”

He expects Connor to hedge or to show some chagrin. He doesn’t anticipate for him to hiss back, “Or you’ll _what_?”

It would cost him little effort to throw Connor over his shoulder and haul him off to his room. The thought of taking him apart until he’s a sobbing wreck is wildly appealing and he blinks at himself in slight surprise.

Had he made a mistake, letting Connor go?

He knows he did. He’s fully aware he shouldn’t have let things end how they did. He should have called. He should have found a way to make it work. Instead, he did what he always does when someone gets close. He cut Connor loose and wished him well to both their detriments.

He missed him. He wants to hold him now. It’s terrifying.

Connor interprets Anderson’s blank silence in the worst way possible. It was a curse to be able to conceal emotions so wholly and completely, but he doesn’t know how to change.

“Why didn’t you _want_ me?” The words bleed through Connor’s teeth and something clenches a little bit tighter in Anderson’s chest. It’s on the verge of shattering.

_Say something_ he admonishes himself mentally. Always inside his head. He’s never been good at emotional confessions or emotions in general.

Connor’s hand is on the doorknob before Anderson realizes he’s trying to leave.

“Absolutely not,” the words come out a whisper, but Connor hesitates as if he heard him.

Crossing the room in three strides, Anderson has Connor crushed between his broad chest and the door. His fingers flex once in uncertainty before burying into Connor’s hair.

For his part, Connor tries to jerk away from him with zero success, “Let go of me.” The words come out quiet and desperate.

“That’s not a mistake I’m about to repeat.” It’s as close to an apology that Anderson can muster on the spot. He knows he owes Connor more than that, but for now, it will do. It has to.

Connor goes rigid under his hands on high alert, “Why?”

Anderson rests his forehead against Connor’s, resisting the urge to sigh. Connor wasn’t going to let him off so easy, “It was wrong to tell you to go without…any explanation. I should have taken your calls. I shouldn’t have left things the way I did.”

It isn’t enough. He can feel Connor’s hesitation. A mental dam breaks when Connor tries to reach for the doorknob once more, “I did want you. Still want you.”

Connor lets out a hiccupping sound at the admission and his hands fist into Anderson’s shirt in an unbreakable grip.

“Why?” He repeats the question and a dozen memories fall into place. They’re not an answer, but a reminder. Quiet evenings grading papers while Connor read, Connor bringing him tea just as he was on the verge of chucking his laptop out the window, the weight of Connor against his side as they sat watching sappy made for TV movies, Connor mumbling _I love you_ in his sleep—

The last one had been the beginning of the end. Love. It bled into Anderson’s brain like an infection, making his heart pound and his lungs seize. He didn’t know what to do with it or what Connor expected. It wasn’t until Connor was gone that Anderson realized he loved him, too.

Anderson didn’t do love. He didn’t do a lot of the things he did with Connor. He didn’t do spooning or coddling or the amount of aftercare that Connor required. He didn’t do those things because that meant attachments. Connor had gotten under his skin, Anderson had bent his own rules, and Connor had paid the brutal price.

Anderson pulls back in favor of cupping Connor’s cheek, “Christ, I never meant to hurt you.” He can hear the clichéd inadequacy of his words, but he has to start somewhere, “I never thought things would go so far. I never thought I’d want them to.”

Connor lets him talk and work his way to the heart of what he knows he needs to say, “You were in love with me. I could see it in your face and hear it in your voice. I could feel it in your touch. It was terrifying.”

“I thought you didn’t want it. Didn’t want me,” Connor whispers into the slight space between them.

“I always wanted you. Who wouldn’t want you?” Anderson thumbs at a fresh tear inching down Connor’s face.

Connor shakes his head, “I meant—”

Anderson’s fingers drift over a couple of inches to rest on Connor’s lips, “I know what you meant.” He can’t look at him. He doesn’t want to see it if it’s too late. He’s a hard man, but he’s brittle. “I was afraid of what would happen if I let myself love you.”

He can see Connor’s incredulous expression in the corner of his eye and he continues talking into the air above Connor’s head, “You might have noticed that what we do isn’t exactly a social norm.” Connor lets out a small laugh at that and Anderson continues, “What would I do if you grew tired of it? How would we keep this up day-to-day? I don’t know what that looks like.”

“Have you ever tried?” Connor counters him immediately and Anderson shakes his head.

“There was never anyone I wanted to try with. I never let things get to that point.” Connor’s body relaxes in fractions. Chancing a look at his face, Anderson can see the cogs turning in Connor’s brain.

After an agonizing few seconds of silence, Connor asks, “Would you like to?”

The same familiar terror floods Anderson’s veins at the question. This time, however, his fear of losing Connor calms it to a slow trickle.

“I can’t promise you anything,” Anderson needs Connor to understand. Change would be sluggish and difficult. He’s willing to try, but—

“I’m not asking you to,” Connor’s voice interjects into Anderson’s thoughts.

“We’d have to discuss a lot of…” the word _rules_ lingers on the tip of his tongue, but it feels crass to say it at the moment.

“I know,” Connor says quietly, seemingly reading Anderson’s thoughts.

The ball is in his court and he knows it. He threads his fingers with Connor’s like a prayer, “Stay. Please.”

The first weeks will be awkward and uncomfortable as they work through hurts and wrongs. Intimacy will take time, but their closeness is immediate. When Anderson reached out the first night to pull Connor near, the slight man had exhaled a shuddering breath.

“This doesn’t seem real,” Connor said quietly into the dark room and Anderson knew what he meant. If he’d known this would be possible, he would’ve eaten a lot more crow earlier in the conversation. He’d forgotten how right Connor felt in his arms.

“I could pinch you,” Anderson offered and Connor laughed.

“I’m sure you’d like that,” Connor sassed back and waited. He expected Anderson to goose him or pinch his side. He didn’t expect him to reach up and tweak at his nipple through his shirt.

Screeching in surprise, he wriggled around to face Anderson in the dark, “You’re terrible.”

“A beast,” Anderson had concurred.

He waited until he knew Connor was asleep. He wanted to practice before trying it out when he’s awake. He also knew it was far too soon. There were bridges to mend first.

“I love you,” the words came out a whisper almost too quiet to hear. Still, Connor mumbled something about the price of ducks in his sleep in response and Anderson smiled.

“I love you,” he said it again a month later, this time while Connor worked hunched over a bench with headphones in his ears.

“I love you,” he murmured against Connor’s temple the first time he’d let Anderson take him to bed since their reunion. He hadn’t meant to say it aloud—he’d only meant to think it—but the feel of Connor’s body, the way he whimpered when close to the edge, the way he always clung at the first slide, and how hard he tried to be good pulled the words from his lips.

Wet brown eyes locked on his as if trying to make sure he’d heard correctly. Connor had struggled against the restraints before Anderson released his arms. Snaking them around Anderson’s neck, he pulled him close, holding on as the man continued to rock into him slowly, gently.

On the verge of unraveling from overwhelming, delicious sensation, Connor needed to be held, “Say it again.”

So Anderson did. He’d had enough practice for it to flow smoothly. He showered Connor with his love, pinning him beneath his body, pistoning into him with reverence he rarely showed.

Connor had sobbed through his release as Anderson anticipated. It had been a long time and Connor was overcome, physically and emotionally. He clung to Anderson in the aftermath, unable to give voice to his scrambled thoughts.

Content to drift for a few quiet moments, he’s jolted awake when Connor murmurs into his skin, “I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake)


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